


Malformed

by killaidanturner



Series: Rumination [2]
Category: Being Human (UK), The Almighty Johnsons
Genre: Alternate Universe, Dark, Drug Use, M/M, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-11
Updated: 2016-01-11
Packaged: 2018-05-13 04:23:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5694589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/killaidanturner/pseuds/killaidanturner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The best cure for the body is a quiet mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Malformed

**Author's Note:**

> The summary is a quote from Napoleon. Is it important? Maybe. This story wont make sense unless you read part one, its under 7k.

Mitchell has the coffee table pushed up against the wall, music hums through the bluetooth speaker sitting on the kitchen counter. Anders walks into the flat, his eyes following Mitchell’s movements across the cleared living room space. 

 

“What are you doing?” Anders asks as he shoves his hands deep within his trouser pockets.

 

“Dancing.” Mitchell replies as he slides toward Anders. He reaches down pulling his hands out of his trousers and into Mitchell’s own. 

 

“Oh no, no, no, this is not happening.” Even though Anders puts up a fight with words his body falls into Mitchell’s. Mitchell guides them with their hands clasped tight. Frank Sinatra plays through the speakers with Mitchell humming along. Anders relaxes enough into Mitchell’s chest and listens along to the lyrics, to Mitchell’s soft spoken words, the crescendo of his voice. 

 

“I’ll be seeing you in all the old familiar places, that this heart of mine embraces,” Anders takes in a deep breath, his cheek cool against Mitchell.  “-not as good as a record player, I miss the static.” 

 

“Record players are outdated just like your fashion sense.” 

 

Mitchell laughs against him, enough to shake Anders of whatever it is that they’re doing. He pushes himself away from Mitchell, pulls his hands out of the vampire’s grasp. “I’m too sober for this.” 

 

Later that night when he’s had half a bottle of vodka and they’ve ordered more take out than they can eat, he lets Mitchell sweep him up again, lets him get caught up in the moment until Bragi is pushing technicolor images against his mind and Anders is kissing Mitchell trying to get all of it to stop.

 

* * *

At night when Mitchell can’t sleep, he look at Anders, when he gently tries to push away the creases in his forehead, to soothe the anguish of whatever happens in Anders dreams, he thinks of being a child. He remembers green, a different hue than what he currently sees. He remembers grey stones, remembers his mother singing songs in the kitchen. He remembers the wind in the summer, how it would blow the curtains in the house and let in the yellow warmth of the sun. He remembers the cross that hung on the wall in the sitting room, and the one above his bed. He remembers at night how he would clasp his hands in prayer, repeat words on his lips that he didn’t understand the meaning of.

 

He remembers learning the word sin for the first time in church, then asking his mother about it later when they were at home. 

 

“I don’t understand what sin is.” His voice was quiet as his mother brushed his hair, her movements soft and memorized. 

 

“Well, John, sin is something unforgivable.”

 

“But what could I ever do to make God not forgive me?” He turned around in her arms, his eyes wide and filled with innocence.

 

She smiled gently down at him, her hand cupping the side of his cheek. “You could love someone more than him. That is the greatest sin.” 

 

He spent the years of his youth doing what he was told to do, believing what others wanted him to believe. He did what he thought was right, what he thought was good. When he thinks about it now he doesn’t know who it did it more for, he knows it wasn’t for himself but perhaps it was for his mother, or maybe for the divine being he was made to believe in. 

 

He spent years after he was turned learning sin, learning of all of the things he could do to never be forgiven. He learned it by kissing people that didn’t belong to him, by taking things, by ripping out throats and creating creatures to battle the light. 

 

He thinks of his pitiful attempts at doing what is right, at some semblance of holiness, words he was grasping at like absolution or redemption. When he’s with Anders he doesn’t think of those things as frequently, they aren’t a constant forerunner in his mind. He know that he wears masks and behind each one are lies, murder, a secret so dark he tries to forget. He turns his memories into a graveyard.

 

He wonders now still if the greatest sin is still worshiping another. If how he kisses Anders at night, down the column of his throat and to his thighs, if that worship is unforgivable. 

 

He doesn’t know where the line is drawn, how is it considered sin if what he is worshiping is godlike.

 

* * *

Mitchell bites down on the crook of Anders neck. Anders is moaning against his, his breath warm. Mitchell immediately pulls back, wiping away blood on the back of his hand.

 

“You’re high.” He narrows his eyes as he says it.

 

“Not as much as I would like to be so why don’t you finish up what you were doing.” His voice comes out wrecked, blood dripping down his neck and to his collar. Blood seeps into the fabric on his shirt, smearing into the crisp white collar. For a moment Mitchell is lost in it, in the red soaking itself into thin threads. He can already hear Anders words tomorrow, bitching about his shirt, saying that he will have to take it to the cleaners or get a new one all together. 

 

Remnants of coke linger on his tongue, he runs his tongue along his teeth. He figures if this is what Anders wants his might as well give it to him. 

 

He pushes Anders back against the wall, his grip tight against the god’s wrists. He licks the blood clean from Anders’ neck, slow lingering strokes until Anders is shaking underneath his grasp. He grips even tighter, enough to pop blood vessels in the wrists, almost enough to fracture bone. When Anders winces out in pain Mitchell bites down. He uses his teeth to make new puncture wounds, he tears at the flesh and lets the blood seep into his mouth. He takes and takes and takes until he feels Anders going limp beneath him. 

 

He breaks away and pushes Anders back on the bed, his eyes half closed and his hands going up to the wound on his neck. 

 

“Is that what you wanted?” Mitchell’s voice is a snarl, a vicious thing that makes Bragi fight even harder in Anders mind. 

 

“Fuck you.”

 

Mitchell shakes his head, his eyes fading back to brown, back to something akin to humanity. He turns around and leaves the room, leaves the flat and does what he does best; disappears.

 

* * *

It takes the better part of four days for Mitchell to come back. He stands outside of the apartment, a brass key in his hand. He runs his fingertips along the ridges, feels the indentations of this specific key and the door that it unlocks. He doesn’t hear any movement inside the flat so he figures that Anders must be at work. He slides the key in the lock and opens the door.

 

The flat is cleaner than when he left which means that Anders had someone come over to clean. All signs of their joint chaos are gone, no dirty dishes in the sink and Mitchell’s ash tray that sits by the windowsill is empty.

 

He walks with quiet, cautious steps, as if someone might be home. He looks around and notices something new. Sitting on the small table against the wall is a record player. Mitchell walks toward it, runs his fingers along the black case. It’s sleek, modern and more fitting of Anders style. He smiles as he lifts up the needle and places it on the record that is sitting on the tray. Perhaps it is a compromise, something for the both of them. Perhaps is it a way of saying, _ sorry. _

 

* * *

“You have a fucking God complex.” Mitchell says to Anders one night, his tongue numb from hops, too many beers.

 

Anders just looks at him with disbelief in his eyes and fucking shrugs in a  _ ‘obviously’ _ sort of fashion.

 

“At least I didn’t say some absolute shit like you have a Napoleon complex. God complex is loads better.” Mitchell takes his hand and moves it out across them, his eyes slowly following his own movements. 

 

“You’re a fucking prick.” Anders says as he puts a glass of vodka up to his lips. 

 

Mitchell turns to smile at him, his grin wide and bearing blunt teeth. Anders has to admit that Mitchell is beautiful, he’s always thought it. His mind flashes back to the first time they met, to Anders drug induced state all those years ago. He remembers how Mitchell had saved him. He always wondered if what Mitchell did was worth it, if all these years and all of the things that have happened, if he’s been better off. 

 

He doesn’t let the thoughts continue, instead he sets his glass down on the coffee table and moves closer to Mitchell, moves so he is straddling Mitchell’s lap and running his hands through Mitchell's dark curls. He leans down and kisses Mitchell gently, softer than he usually does. He grabs hold of Mitchell’s hair and pulls tightly, tight enough to cause Mitchell to growl and his eyes to turn, for his fangs to come out. 

 

Mitchell has barely a moment to feel Anders smile against his mouth before Anders tongue is running along Mitchell’s sharp teeth and causing himself to bleed. Anders doesn’t mind the blood so much when Mitchell is a barely tamable thing underneath him, frantic hands and a desire so blinding hot it could light up the night.

 

They kiss the way a fists connects with a wall, bruising force. Anders kisses a line down Mitchell’s jaw, smearing red across his skin. They sear their bodies together, melding into something more vicious. All clawing moans, nails that scratch and bones that ache. 

 

* * *

The creation of things should have been simple, gods didn’t take in the account of cause and effect. They didn’t take into account reactions, chemical and emotional. They didn’t understand that the atoms in Mitchell’s eyes held something far deeper than the word fear.

 

* * *

The fact is Mitchell spends a lifetime battling himself and always losing. Everyone has heard this story before, though it never stops him from dreaming what it would be like if he were to win.

 

He spends his days watching Anders, the slow decay that works itself from within his body. He doesn’t know how to bring it up, how to say something about the chaos, self destruction, the supernova about to happen. He sees how Anders burns bright, too hot and ready to burn out, teetering on the galaxy’s edge. 

 

Instead when he sees these moments, sees Anders reaching for a bottle, for pills, for anything to stop the commotion in his head he offers himself. He offers the darkness he battles, offers his teeth and his bruising hands and Anders always _ takes.  _

 

It’s his own fucked up form of repenting. If he can do this for Anders, to stop whatever it is going on in his head then maybe it will redeem him in some light. When Anders is pressed against dark sheets with red and purple blossoming against his neck, Mitchell doesn’t think of ruin, instead he thinks of absolution and shaky prayers. 

 

When Anders gasps out against him, Mitchell inhales, pulling out his anger and swallowing his pain. He wants to strip away the trembling violence, the cruelty of his words, turn them into something softer that isn’t seething. 

 

* * *

__

Around other people Anders has a stiffer gait, his spine straighter, his shoulders more square. When he walks it is as if he’s walking through a battlefield and that is something Mitchell can understand.

 

* * *

It gets worse, the constant stream of thought in Anders head. Extended metaphors and shit Anders doesn’t understand half of the time, or really even care about. But Bragi wants, more and more and more. He keeps taking, keeps pushing thoughts into Anders mind, whispering words and breathing life into situations he shouldn’t. He grows restless when Mitchell isn’t around, when he disappears, when Mitchell’s senses tell him  _ flight _ instead of fight. Which happens to be more frequent than either of them like. It’s hard though when Anders needs space but Bragi doesn’t want to let him have it.

 

* * *

It gets to a point where songs aren’t just songs but something with bellowing static, with echoes and neon filled buzz. Where everything is lyrical, the world clawing to be paid attention to, as if it's already dead and the ghost of it is lingering and clinging on whispering  _ ‘do not forget’. _

 

“What's wrong?” Mitchell asks as Anders pinches the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut tight.

 

“The music.” 

 

“Oh come on, it’s not  _ that _ bad.” Mitchell groans.

 

“It’s not your choice this time, it’s just the noise.” He points to his head as if what he’s saying makes sense. Mitchell’s smile falls, he gets up to take the needle off the record player. 

 

He goes back to Anders, pushing his legs apart and crouching down on the floor so he is rested between them. Anders still has his eyes shut and his head resting against the couch cushions. 

 

“Do you want to go to the bedroom?” Mitchell asks in a whisper, afraid the normal octave of his voice may come across too loud or something more. 

 

Anders nods his head  _ ‘yes.’ _

 

* * *

It’s not all Bragi. Part of it is Anders. Part of it is the way he watches Mitchell, Mitchell who still can’t remember what cabinet the cups are in or what setting he likes the toaster on. Mitchell who walks around the flat with a towel draped low around his waist, water droplets running down his chest from his still wet hair. Mitchell who walks around as the embodiment of sin but a smile that could puts the heavens to shame.

 

Maybe Anders likes the sound of his voice. Maybe he likes his odd quirks, how he holds onto things from the past like music and movies, how he romanticizes them and makes them better than what Anders knows them to be. 

 

When Mitchell’s hands find Anders at night, when he laces their fingers together, Anders squeezes gently instead of pushing him away. 

 

* * *

He can’t separate himself from Bragi, from the whispers in his head. Somedays he finds Mitchell endearing and others he wants nothing more than to never see him again. He can’t tell which part of himself wants these things. If it's the god whispering in his ear or if Anders wants both, if Anders is that fucked up that he can’t stand to be around another for long periods of time. The flippancy of his moods builds a pattern, it becomes more frequent and sporadic.

 

Anders picks fights as if he’s picking poppies in a field of war. Bordering on something beautiful and dangerous.

 

The flat builds up a chorus of slamming doors, a symphony of cutting words. They say things they don’t mean and never fully apologize after. Anders doesn’t know how to say sorry and mean it, instead he does it in small gestures. He hopes it's the little things that make Mitchell stay like how he always has the fridge stocked with Mitchell’s favorite beer, or how he stopped telling Mitchell off for leaving cigarette ash by the windowsill. 

 

When Mitchell isn’t around to drown out Anders own thoughts he resorts to his old methods. To thin white lines and wide pupils, to his racing heart. Sometimes Mitchell comes home to find Anders wrecked, to find his body limp as if his spine can longer support the weight of him. Mitchell thinks that they'll end up crucifying each other, their mouths a crown of thorns.

 

In those moments Mitchell thinks he’ll never understand this specific kind of drowning.

 

Mitchell always cleans up the mess after, spends his time counting vertebrae and placing tender kisses along Anders skin until he comes back to himself.

 

He figures they both deserve something soft at times. 

 

* * *

It happens one day in the spring, when the trees are blooming in vivid colors. Mitchell walks into the flat and he can already tell that something is off.

 

“Anders?” He calls out into the silence. Mitchell listens a little harder this time and hears a very slow uneven beat of a heart. He drops the bag of take out he had in his hand on the floor. “Shit.”

 

He rushes down the hall and into the bathroom. 

 

He thinks he’s seen a lot of fucking terrible things in his life, in fact most of them he has been the cause of, but this has to rank up there as one of the worst.

 

Anders is a clammy, pale, his eyes closed and his breathing shallow as he lays on the tiled floor. The sleeve on his shirt is rolled up past his elbow, a tourniquet wrapped tightly above the crook and a needle on the floor.

 

“You fucking idiot!” Mitchell screams as he crashes on his knees, cold tile pressing too hard against his bones. He lifts Anders up enough to put his head in his lap. He can feel Anders pulse slowing down even more. 

 

“John.” Anders voice is barely audible, the name leaving Anders lips like a last prayer. Mitchell can feel tears welling up in the corners of his eyes. 

 

“No, no, no.” He uses one hand to search his pockets looking for his phone. “You’re not doing this to me.” He grits his teeth as a tear falls down his cheek. 

 

There is a stutter and a gasp before golden light fills the room. Mitchell watches in awe as Bragi leaves Anders body. 

 

He knows he doesn’t have a lot of time. He has barely a moment to think. He fast forwards his life, to what it would be like without Anders, without his wit and his masked tenderness. Mitchell realizes that this is his turning point, that Anders is his fixed point in a changing age. For as much as Anders used Mitchell to push away things in his head, to use him a his own form of medicine, that Mitchell was always doing the same thing. He was using Anders as a lifeline of sorts, of something that helped him walk a dangerous line. 

 

He’s not a priest, he can’t give anyone their last rights. He’s something much darker, something malformed and godless.

 

He doesn’t hesitate to think if he would love Anders in any form but this one, he knows what his answer would be. This is how he knows he is selfish, how he is truly unforgiven. 

 

He bites down on Anders neck. 

**Author's Note:**

> before there is a lot of yelling at me, this story will be told in one more part


End file.
